The Objection

They look at me
whisper/wonder
Sweet, so sweet.

the label, a concrete slab gripping my feet. 

Sweet. I drown. gulp for air
under the tides of assumption (crashing interruptions and denials of my corruption)

that I am a Rose, thorns stripped away by society's hand

When, really, I am just a dandelion in disguise. 

but all they see are these wide green eyes.
as my truth scatters away in the wind
leaving me chagrined,
bald stem, with unwanted roots.

The Caution of the Implusive

I do not dare

dig with my pen in winter when

seeds of saplings nest and hide

in a heartless hearth yet hoping 

and it's too dim for ideas to breathe

under the care of my cynical thumb 

Except,

Two unruly rosebushes wild; admired  

by impulsive gardeners

daring belief in sweet golden light

everything'd be just fine, just right. 

No, I do not dare (Not often anyway)